


he makes the world stop

by mybelovedcheshire



Series: La Maison de l'ABC [3]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, cherry trees and a little comedy, sexin' in the dark, smutty fluffy cute schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Courfeyrac share an intimate moment in the courtyard when everybody else (almost everyone, we should say) is sleeping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he makes the world stop

Courfeyrac pressed his nose against Jehan’s neck and took a deep breath. “I love you,” he murmured. “I love every inch of you.”

Jehan smirked. “Every inch?”

Courfeyrac purred. “I want every inch of you everywhere.”

“We’re in the sitting room,” Jehan murmured, arching into Courfeyrac’s touch as warm fingers dragged over his hip bone. He kept his voice steady -- to Courfeyrac’s disappointment. 

“And we’ve been in the sitting room.” Courfeyrac sat up. The lights in the house were out -- everyone was either in bed, or in their respective rooms, and therefore not likely to interrupt them any time soon.

Not likely -- but it wasn’t impossible, which was the whole reason they’d bothered to get half-naked on a couch in the sitting room in the first place. 

Jehan protested at the sudden rush of cold air that washed over him. He folded his arms over his pale chest and pursed his lips. 

Courfeyrac glanced down at him with a wry smile. It was that sweetly devious expression he reserved for the handfuls of people who had the pleasure of knowing him intimately -- the one that would leave pants at the door, next to Dignity and Inhibitions. 

Jehan rolled his eyes. 

He loved Courfeyrac -- he loved him heart, mind, and soul. But there was a very American expression that Bossuet was fond of repeating every time something unlucky happened to him. 

You don’t play a player. 

He glanced over the back of the sofa. There was only so much interest one house could hold (and when you were as adventurous as they were, well -- the interesting places ran out quickly). But the door to the little courtyard caught his eye. 

Courfeyrac’s head turned, following his gaze. 

They rolled off the couch. 

It was warmer outside than in the house -- something they were both grateful for. Enjolras might have preached liberty and fairness, but his control over the thermostat bordered on a Reign of Terror. And he liked the cold. 

Jehan kept his hands on Courfeyrac’s sides as they tiptoed barefoot across the stone. Courfeyrac’s pants hung off his hips -- they were unbuttoned, and wouldn’t have stayed on if Jehan had been given another minute -- and his hair fell into his eyes. Jehan’s braid was a mess, but that was fairly routine. Courfeyrac had a habit of running his fingers through it -- of tugging at ribbons and plaits until it all hung loose in a curly mess around his shoulders. 

It was more angelic that way, Courf said.

And he considered fucking an angel a very important personal achievement. 

They stopped under the branches of the courtyard’s one cherry tree and wrapped each other up again. 

“We’re like nymphs,” Courfeyrac murmured smugly. 

Jehan brushed his lips against Courfeyrac’s chest. “I’m a nymph,” he corrected softly. “You’re a nympho.”

“It’s a hobby,” Courfeyrac replied, grinning. 

Jehan looked up through soft blond lashes. “So how do we mark the occasion?” He asked, barely voicing the words. Courfeyrac could feel every sound, and it sent shivers all the way down to his toes. 

“You decide.”

Jehan hummed and pressed a kiss to his breastbone. Courfeyrac answered him with a happy, satisfied noise. 

And then Jehan kissed lower, and lower, trailing a warm, soft line of lips and tongue all the way down Courfeyrac’s abdomen until he’d sunk down to his knees. 

Courfeyrac looked down -- his wry smile had vanished. His hazel eyes were wide, and impressed, and so very, very delighted with the choices his little poet made at half past three in the morning on a weeknight in the shadow of a cherry tree. 

Jehan gripped the legs of Courfeyrac’s pants and gave them a gentle tug. They slid down easily, leaving only Courfeyrac’s thin cotton boxers in the way of a very good time, and a very dirty plan. Jehan didn’t take his eyes off Courfeyrac’s face. 

He smirked. 

Courfeyrac grinned. 

Jehan tugged his boxers down. 

Courfeyrac was grateful for the cherry tree when Jehan’s warm little mouth wrapped around him. He tipped back against it, one hand snaking into Jehan’s hair, and the other clutching at the ribbed bark behind him to steady himself. 

He’d always thought he had a very talented tongue.

And then he’d met Jehan. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deep -- inhaling that warm, romantic scent of summer, and Jehan’s shampoo, and the fresh night air. He felt the bark scratch his back -- but he liked it. He liked mixing things up. 

He liked the way Jehan’s lips ghosted over him, and then held him tight again. He dragged his fingers through Jehan’s hair appreciatively and bit back a quiet moan. 

Jehan purred around him. 

Courfeyrac gasped. 

Jehan very slowly and very deliberately circled Courfeyrac with his tongue. There would be no getting out of this quietly. He would see to that. 

Courfeyrac bit his lip. His knees felt weak, and he couldn’t resist gently rocking against his little poet’s masterful mouth. Jehan slid his hands up the back of Courfeyrac’s legs, dragging his nails over the back of Courfeyrac’s thighs. Courfeyrac inhaled sharply again and squirmed, pushing his hips forward, and his back into the rough trunk of the tree. 

“Jehan,” he murmured breathlessly.

Jehan tightened his lips and sucked hard. 

Courfeyrac’s voice broke as he moaned. 

His fingers twisted tightly into Jehan’s hair. He could hear his own heart drumming in his ears, and any sense he’d had of the warm summer air vanished in the heat of that mouth -- of the warmth radiating off him -- as he stifled a far too happy whine. 

He could feel Jehan smiling around him. 

“Oh god,” Courfeyrac all but panted. 

A window slammed shut on the second floor.

Courfeyrac’s gaze flicked upwards, but he grinned and giggled -- and if Enjolras had stayed at his window and looked down (which he certainly didn’t), he’d have seen the victoriously defiant glimmer in Courfeyrac’s eyes. 

Jehan’s fingers dug into the back of Courfeyrac’s legs gently.

The things he was doing with his mouth, however, were anything but, and it was starting to take its toll. 

Courfeyrac’s laughter turned into quick, shallow breaths, and his squirming became a constant, smooth roll of his hips. Jehan’s tongue danced around him. He let go of Jehan’s hair and reached up, wrapping his hand around the nearest branch of the cherry tree. 

The last white petals of spring poured down around them in the darkness. Everywhere they touched skin, Courfeyrac felt like he’d been kissed. Again and again, and all the while, Jehan hummed and coaxed him until Courfeyrac came with a voiced little noise of delight. 

Slowly, Jehan leaned back, licking his lips. The flowers clung to his hair like snowflakes. 

Courfeyrac breathed out carefully. He was still afraid to let go of the tree -- his legs felt completely limp.

And then he thought -- that would be quite alright, actually.

He dropped to the ground next to his beloved, and wrapped him up tight. Jehan melted into him, kissing him hard -- kissing him passionately enough to make time stop around them. Jehan made the cherry blossoms stop falling, and the earth stop spinning. 

In the soft love of Courfeyrac’s embrace, he refused to let the morning light -- with its inevitable, terrible retribution -- rise.


End file.
